


Scott's Angels

by daniko



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, M/M, Pre-Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-09
Updated: 2013-07-09
Packaged: 2017-12-18 05:52:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,506
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/876365
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/daniko/pseuds/daniko
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In the summer of '09, Stiles, Lydia, Allison and Scott pooled their collective wits and resources to convince their assortment of single mums and dads to let them drive to Sacramento for the <em>Fifth Annual Amateur Hale of a Race!</em>.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Scott's Angels

**Author's Note:**

> So, I was taking prompts for the Teen Wolf fandom and tumblr user twentysomethingwolf suggested “some sterek drag racing? with derek being the seasoned veteran and stiles being the hotshot newcomer with a fondness for flashy cars and derek” which is the cutest thing ever and if you think otherwise, I'm sorry. Now beta’d by tumblr user theazara, many thanks for the help!

Allison was something of a mechanic. She had built her first sweet ride at fifteen and her current pride and joy was built out of the random parts Scott, Stiles and Lydia would sometimes salvage from the local junkyard; and, although she was all set for a career in federal crime investigation, she liked her hobbies. Those mostly consisted of building frankenstein cars and racing Beacon Hills' assholes (like Jackson Whittemore) for entertainment's sake.

After one too many victories, Allison had decided she needed a challenge and conscripted her Chief Engineer for the task of racing California state's assholes instead. Aforementioned Chief Engineer was, in fact, Lydia. She tinkered with Allison's engines often enough that they showed an eficiency only acceptable in, like, NASA rockets. And, since Lydia's only known hobby was to eat the metaphorical heart of douchebags (read, Jackson), she was all in for travelling to Sacramento and signing up for the _Fifth Annual Amateur Hale of a Race!_ with her newest creation, Hunter.

Unfortunately, neither Lydia nor Allison had showed the borderline suicidal tendencies necessary to drive a racing car into battle and Scott was such a sweet muffin from dawn to dusk (and dusk to dawn), that they had no choice but to ask The Stilinskinator!

The four of them were not your usual highschool pack, but circumstances (parental deaths and abandonment, academical challenge and common hatred for the same douchebags, read Jackson) had brought them together.

The rest, as they say, was history. . . . Only not really, because seeing Melissa, Daddy Argent, Mama Martin and Dad wearing matching “I'm so serious right now” expressions while preaching the Be Responsible! sermon everytime the four of them happened to run into trouble (or actively go search for it, in Stiles' case) was not something Stiles ever expected to find terrifying, or kind of adorable, for that matter.

By the time the summer before college rolled around, the four of them had weared their parental units down into compliance. They packed their bags, loaded Stiles' blue Jeep and drove northside.

They arrived early one day in mid-June, left their bags at the motel and drove off in Hunter for the race site to sign up. The following days were lost among legal protocols, routine physical and mechanical check-ups and setting up shop. A friend of Dad's from the Police Department had to come down vouch that they are all over eighteen, despite (or maybe because of) Stiles waving his ID card in front of the reception guy's face; that no, they hadn't had the help of a mechanical engineer, thank you very much. Soon, they were down to training exercises and measuring the competition.

Two days before the race, Stiles was sitting on Hunter's hood, while Lydia and Allison checked the tires and Scott sat in the shadow of the gas station, eating ice-cream, nose buried in the _Unbearable Lightness of Being_ , when he realised everyone else had a name for their team. He sat up suddenly and turned towards the others. “Oh, my God, guys!” Lydia sighed and exchanged a glance with Allison. “What?” Stiles demanded. “I have a point to make, you know!”

“Sorry, Stiles, we're listening,” said Allison, looking up from the mechanic-y stuff with that dimpled smile of hers. Of course, Stiles had no other choice but to forgive them.

“We need a team name.” Lydia groaned in a very unlady-like fashion, but Stiles ignored her. “What's the name of the current champions?”

“Hale's Wolves,” replied Scott absently. At the pointed silence that followed, he looked up and scowled. “What, I pay attention! That was what that guy – who Stiles kept shoving is ID at – said.” Allison smile turned all gooey, and _fond_ , and she stood up to kiss Scott in the nose, making Scott's smile all gooey in response. It was sickening.

Lydia and Stiles made faces at each other, but of course they went right over Scott and Allison's heads.

“Anyway,” continued Stiles and, expectedly, Lydia was now more than happy to listen, if it meant she could drown out the smooching noises coming from the muffin couple. “How about Wolfsbane. . . ? Or, _or_ , I know—.”

“Oh God.” Lydia looked just about done with Stiles. It kind of was one of Stiles' favourite looks on her, truth be told, right next to “pleasantly surprised with Stiles” or “is actually having fun with Stiles”.

“—like, if we want to be _clever,_ ” Stiles continued excitedly, “how about _Monkswood_?”

“Oh, dear me, no one has _ever_ thought of that before,” said someone right next to Stiles' ear.

Stiles startled, moved his arms around to find some balance, couldn't find any, and almost fell off Hunter's hood (and considering the car was elevated for Allison and Lydia, it wouldn't have been a pretty fall), except that someone gripped one of his wind-milling arms and kept him in place.

Stiles looked behind himself with a heartfelt “Thank you!” on his lips, but any coherency he had left after this little scare died a quick death at the pair of really, really pretty green eyes he met. Eyes that were framed by the scariest set of eyebrows known to mankind, actually. Stiles sat back straight and took a good look at the guy who owned those eyes: chiselled jaw peppered with dark stubble and a perfect straight nose. Even worse: strong arms, perfectly sculptured chest inside a damned tight grey henley, narrow waist and, oh God, this man had turned Stiles into one of Scott's heroines.

Behind Gorgeous Stud was an, unfortunately, all too familiar face and two other women, clearly related, but Stiles was having trouble focusing past the Adonis still holding his arm.

Lydia narrowed her eyes at the other guy. “Aren't you the one who kept asking for our _real IDs_?”

“I am. Peter Hale,” he held out his hand, “nice to meet you.” Lydia shook his hand, but kept glaring at him. “I'm sorry, but this kid here,” he pointed at Stiles, “simply doesn't look eighteen.”

Stiles bristled (which made Prince Hotstuff quickly let go of his arm) and pointed a finger at Peter Hale. “You're a douche, you know that, right?” Hot-and-Sexy snorted, which obviously made Stiles feel like ten feet tall. He felt himself flush, but valiantly ignored it. “I told you I'm eighteen! I showed you my ID! Detective Weston came down to swear he has known me since I was born, which was _eighteen years ago_! You wanna see my ID again, is that it?”

“No, thanks,” said Peter, all saccharine-sweetness. “As it is, I don't think my nose will ever be the same.”

Stiles crossed his arms, pressed his lips together and settled for glaring at Peter.

Scott, bless his soul, chose that moment to say, “Hey, you said your last name was Hale? You guys organise the race every year, right?”

Peter looked away from his staring match with Stiles. “Yes. My nephew here,” he pointed at  Gorgeous Live-Sculpture, “Derek, Derek Hale, in case anyone is wondering—,” Stiles narrowed his eyes at him. “—has been our pilot for five years in a row. In fact, he started with your ages, he was adorable.”

“Peter,” Derek protested and, oh dear Lord above, his voice! Stiles wanted that voice, wanted to take a hold of it and keep it around his neck like Ursula, the octopus, and listen to it every time he wanted some quality time with himself and, wow, that voice would sparkle some spectacular fantasies in a very near future.

One of the women walked around Peter to throw an arm around Derek's shoulders. She was very beautiful, same green eyes and nose as Derek, but with auburn hair falling down her shoulders. “Now, now, bro, you _were_ adorable!” Derek was blushing and it went all the way to his ears. “He hadn't filled-in, see,” she added for Stiles' benefit, “so he was all tall and gangly and always brooding. The girls loved him.”

“Duh!” said Stiles, before he could help himself, and immediately wished he had.

Lydia and Derek's sister both let out crystalline laughs, but Allison and Scott were at least pretending not to be laughing at Stiles in their heads. The older woman was looking disapprovingly at Derek's sister and Peter only looked thoughtful.

“Laura!” said the older woman. “Stop teasing your brother!”

At that, Stiles had no choice but to risk a peek at Derek and he could see Derek was bright red and sort of shuffling his feet in embarrassment.

Now, Stiles didn't believe in love at first sight and, hell, he planned to be living _la vida loca_ in Berkeley in a few months, but he could tell he was already halfway there with this ridiculous man. Like, seriously, who looked like God's gift to mankind and was still as bashful as hell? At this point, Stiles would be happy to kiss his nose, nuzzle his jaw and cuddle in the couch while they watched years of _Star Trek_.

“Sorry, mum,” said Laura, even though she looked anything but. “So you guys were deciding on a team name, right?”

Lydia rolled her eyes. “Stiles here was being a bit insistent before you guys showed up, yes.”

“I actually had an idea,” said Allison brightly.

Lydia sighed. “ _Et tu_ , Brutus?”

Allison shrugged sweetly, before suggesting, “How about Scott's Angels?”

“No,” said Lydia.

“Hell _no_ ,” said Stiles.

Scott's hopeful smile turned south.

“I take it you're Scott,” said Peter.

“Yeah,” Allison replied with her perfect little Scott-smile, as Lydia and Stiles called it. “Scott's like, the only thing that keeps us from getting in each other's nerves, even Lydia and I.” She turned to Stiles and Lydia. “So, they,” she gestured to the Hales, “are Hale's Wolves and we could be Scott's Angels. It fits like you wanted, Stiles, right? Besides, Scott's our Team Chief.”

“There are no words, Allison, no words,” Lydia grumbled. Stiles, on another hand, was sold to the idea and he could tell Lydia wasn't all that set against it. He looked hopefully at Lydia, because, truth be told, if anyone had veto right in their little group, it was Queen Lydia. “Oh, all right! Jesus, you're all like Prada sometimes.”

“Your dog?” asked Stiles.

“No, my designer handbag. You look like my handbag when you look hopeful like that. Moron.”

“Well, it's official, then,” interrupted Allison, before Stiles could reply. “We're Scott's Angels!”

“Nice name!” said Laura. “I guess we'll see you in the track in a couple of days. I'm Derek's engineer,” she added, as an explanation. “Actually, I'm an engineer, period.” Lydia expectedly perked up at that. “We all have our jobs outside of the race track, but racing it's kind the family hobby. Derek is actually an Anthropology major at Berkeley.”

This was it, the final proof: Stiles had died in his sleep and gone straight to heaven. In heaven, they had taken pity on him for dying a virgin and decided to reward him. They had given him the perfect summer holidays (a tour with his best friends to race in Allison's cars) and then presented him with the most perfect creature in the whole wide world, featuring everything Stiles wanted in a significant other and then some, just so that Stiles could hope to have some fun with him.

Oblivious to Stiles' inner drama, Laura continued, “Anyway, good luck! See you in the track!”

Laura, Derek and their mother had started moving away, when Peter suggested, with suspicious lightness, “You know, I actually have an idea to make this year's race a bit more interesting.” And wasn't that a cliché! “You see,” Peter continued, mostly addressing Lydia, “every year we decide to greet the racers and, in a way, measure up the competition. Most of them are old friends and, if they haven't beaten us so far, I doubt they will this year. But your machine—.”

“Hunter,” provided Scott helpfully.

Peter paused pointedly, before continuing, “Your machine is the best we've seen in a while. We thought you might give our engineer a run for her money.” Laura laughed agreeably. “Not to mention our pilot.” Derek spared a glance at Stiles, who was in his pilot suit, and Stiles felt warmth spread from his solar-plexus to the tip of his fingers. “How about, if you guys win, your pilot has to take ours for dinner? If we lose, our pilot has to take yours for dinner.”

Stiles was so busy staring at Derek, who was now unabashedly staring back, that it took him a while to register Peter's words.

“What?” squeaked Stiles.

“Peter!” protested Derek, like fifteen octaves below Stiles' tone.

Unfortunately for Stiles, Lydia seemed to detest Peter. “It's a bet,” she agreed easily.

Everyone else seemed to be enjoying the good-natured competition, except Lydia and Peter, who seemed to be engaging in some sort of staring contest (Stiles wondered what that was about), and Derek, who seemed ready for the floor to open up and swallow him down.

It made Stiles kind of daring. He jumped of Hunter's hood (nearly braining himself on the bumper while doing so) and walked to Derek, cocky as you please. “What do you say, Sourwolf? Do you think I have a chance of beating you?”

Derek snorted, shifting his weight so that he could stand in front of Stiles, and crossed his arms in front of his rather massive chest, smirking. Dammit, but Derek was _sexy_. Stiles had no choice but to pick on him a little more. “Because, you know, I know my engineer and my mechanic and I know Hunter. I think I have a pretty good chance of beating you.” If anything, Derek looked even more amused. “All right, then. I hope you know a good restaurant in Sacramento.”

Suddenly, Derek threw an arm around Stiles' shoulders (Stiles squeaked in surprise) and pulled Stiles against his side. “You know what, kid? And I know Alpha. She's the best ride in the world. My sister made her from scratch. I hope you saved your allowance, because I'm going to win this race and I eat. A lot.” Without another word, Derek let go of Stiles (who lost his balance and almost brained himself on the bumper again) and walked away, a newfound spring in his step.

Stiles narrowed his eyes at Derek's back. Oh, but it was _on_. In the mist of his outrage and embarrassment, he almost didn't hear Peter say, “He doesn't know we live Beacon Hills, does he?”

And Lydia reply, “I don't think so, no. But I'm sure it will be hilarious when he finally realises you are the creepy librarian who keeps bothering teenage girls while they are studying.”

“And that Laura was the lacrosse coach before we joined the team,” said Scott.

“And that Mrs Hale owns the diner near the precint,” said Allison.

“And that Mr Hale is our Math teacher,” added Lydia

“And Cora has been in your class for, what? Six years, now?” concluded Peter, at last, smirking at Stiles.

_~the end_


End file.
